For most of us scenesters above a certain age, drinking isn’t what it used to be. Most of us do it because we have to or else we’ll burst from stress, not because we want to. I can’t even remember the last time I was excited about going out. Most of the time, I’m, like, “F**k, someone’s having a birthday/going-away/random party.
I gotta go and show face. Guess I’m gonna be hung over tomorrow. Better make it count.” And for most of us, the older you get, the longer and more despicably intense your hangovers become. Back in the day, though, going out was the highlight of my (sad, pathetic) life. During the week, I’d go to my little worker-bee reporting job for 12 hours a day, and, lacking the appropriate joi de vivre (that’s French for “money”) and energy to go out on school nights, I had nothing but Fridays and Saturdays to look forward to. Same deal in college, when I was underage and when I did most of my drinking either at someone’s crappy apartment or outside.
That’s right. Outside. Typically in a public place, like a parking lot or park. In the open air, the same kind of open air that may be the best preventative measure for a hangover there is. (Ever notice that when you drink mostly on a patio or at the lake, your hangovers aren’t as bad? Thanks, oxygen!) Drinking outside, especially as an underager, was also tinged with danger. We’re not talking serious, life-threatening, James Bond-ish danger, but the kind that, if not handled properly, can throw off the entire rest of your week or month. Stuff like: Are the cops gonna come? If they do, where am I gonna run to? How many beers can I stuff into my pants and still be able to shuck and jive considerably fast? Will I pull a hammy? You know, the kind of “danger” that, for many of us, might be able to bring back some of drinking’s lovely, long-lost mystique.
Which is why I invite members of the local scene to start a new group. Call it the Fresh-Air Booze Cabal, in which folks sign up to receive a text message from an unknown source, call him or her The Boozemaster, that includes a designated place and time to gather. Like those flash mobs in New York City back in the ’90s, remember? Potential mob-sters would send e-mails to some guy to receive a text message from him that would indicate when and where to, well, become a mob. Most of the places were random, like a street corner on the West Side or the humanities section of the main library, and participants had 30 minutes to get there. The whole thing would last about a minute. Did it make sense? Absolutely not. Was it fun? Heck, yes.
The Cabal won’t be nearly as physically challenging. No known underagers will be permitted, and everyone must bring relatively portable libations – scampering from the cops with a keg on your shoulder or two martini glasses and a shaker wouldn’t be prudent. Slightly dangerous and invigorating, yes. Stupid? Oh, yeah. Smart, no.
So. See you all … where?
New awesome drink: the pomjito at Embargo (210 E. 8th St., Fort Worth; 817-870-9750), a new specialty cocktail that’s like a mojito but made with pomegranate-flavored rum instead of the plain stuff and was created – here, as far as we know – by Embargo bartender and former Best Of winner Jim Rodriguez (late of the late Black Dog Tavern). I don’t know his entire schedule, but I’ve seen him behind the bar on a couple of Tuesdays, a.k.a. spoken-word poetry night, when customers are encouraged to be quiet and are sometimes shushed for lack of cooperation, which is a good thing, especially when there’s a pomjito in your hand. It’s a drink made for sippin’ and contemplatin’ the bigger things in life – like love, death, and socialism – and not partyin’.
– Anthony Mariani
Contact Last Call at firstname.lastname@example.org.